Wednesday, August 31.
Mother’s birthday. She is fifty-three years old. We have not been able
to celebrate it especially, yet she is not likely to forget it, though
spent in climbing a Rocky Mountain range. We have been now four months
on this journey. Have lived out of doors, in all sorts of weather. It
has been very beneficial to mother. She was looking frail and delicate
when we started, but seems to be in perfect health now, and looks at
least ten years younger.
I have not heard her utter one word of complaint, either of physical
suffering or outward discomfort, such as the heat or cold, mud, dust,
rain, nor any of the things that make camping out disagreeable, and so
many people grumble about. “What can’t be cured, must be endured,” is
her motto, and the one care has been that we all keep in good health,
and she would ask nothing more.
We are camping in Pleasant Valley, a depression right on top of the
mountain, just large enough for a good-sized ranch. It is a beautiful
place, the scenery is magnificently grand. There is a fine grove of
beautiful trees at the lower end of the vale. The sides and upper end
are hedged in by straight up and down hills or mountain-sides, about
fifteen feet high. The grass is a luxuriant green and very plentiful.
There is a station here, occupied by a family that used to live in
Virginia City. They have two very bright little girls, who have spent
the early evening hours with us. They are perfect little chatterboxes
to talk. They have a married sister living in Virginia City, the wife
of a Mr. Wheeler, who is a candidate for some office. The little girls
had forgotten whether for sheriff or Member of Congress.
* * * * *
Thursday, September 1.
This is brother Mac’s birthday. He is twenty-seven years old. I wonder
if he has thought of it, and remembered us. I presume he has. It has
been some weeks since we have had an opportunity to post a letter to
him. There have been depredations by the Indians, which have no doubt
been largely reported in the newspapers, and he cannot know that we
have escaped. His anxiety and suspense must be hard to bear. I know I
should suffer agonies were our circumstances reversed.
As we were descending the mountain we met a freight train loaded with
people returning to the States. After we had passed them about half a
mile, Hillhouse was walking in front of the wagons, and found a miner’s
shovel. It is bright and shining, but not new. It is worn off some. The
men tell Hillhouse it is a good omen, that he will make money by the
shovelful. He laughed, and said: “I reckon I’d better keep it, then, to
shovel it up with.”
* * * * *
Friday, September 2.
When I awoke in the night I heard the rain pattering on the
wagon-cover. This morning the mountains were all covered with snow,
and presented a magnificent picture. Those nearest our camp are covered
with pine trees of an intensely dark green. The snow on the boughs and
beneath the trees glittered in the sunshine. The scene was constantly
changing, as the warm sun melted the snow from the boughs, and before
night it was all gone except on the highest peaks, where it stays all
summer.
The roads have been sloppy and muddy to-day, though the water has all
run off or evaporated, so that it is comparatively dry where we are
camping, notwithstanding there was so much snow and water on the ground
this morning. It is too cold for comfort this evening. We are hovering
around the stove with our shawls on.